People will Talk
by FugitiveSGA
Summary: Sherlock has been back in 221B for several days, and John is having trouble sleeping. Sheer unadulterated fluff.
1. Chapter 1

John stumbled a little on the stairs, and rubbed his eyes as he walked down to the kitchen.

His face felt pinched, his eyes sticky and his mouth dry. His mind was dulled by the two hours of sleep he had gotten so far, but he was thankful for even that.

The deep voice nearly sent him back up the stairs, "Cup of tea, John?"

"Oh, oh, Jesus, Sherlock, I forgot you were…."

"I know," a strong hand guided him to his usual armchair, and Sherlock strode off to put the kettle on, then came back to sit opposite John.

John clasped his hands together, rested his nose and chin on them, and tried not to stare, "I um…"

Silence fell, then Sherlock said in a soft voice, "Having trouble sleeping?"

"You no- well, yes, you noticed," John lifted his hands apart for a second then clasped them back together. "I'd forgotten."

The silence fell again, then Sherlock's voice came again, "What?"

John shook his head, unable to express himself clearly on so little sleep.

Sherlock prompted, "You had forgotten."

John sighed, "I'm worried that it won't be forgetting, it'll be… imagining, that you're back. And then I'll- " he rubbed his face on his balled hands, around in two small circles.

"You'll what?"

John glanced up and met the sea-green, clear eyes, and declined to answer. He looked away quickly, before Sherlock could deduce what he had meant, "I don't know."

John heard a soft shuffle, and Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, saying quietly, in that sincere voice which John had rarely heard, "John."

He managed to meet Sherlock's eyes, which were soft, concerned. So human… sometimes.

"What?" John managed to ask.

Sherlock looked away, then looked back up at him earnestly, "There's no point in telling you that I'm sorry. I did what I had to, to save you. You know all that."

"I get that."

"Then what is the problem? Why can you not sleep?"

John worried his bottom lip in his teeth, and eventually sighed, "Because we got it all wrong, Sherlock. Both of us. You, with your cleverness, me, with my vast knowledge," (Sherlock smiled at the wry tone in John's voice), "of people and… things. We just… got it wrong."

There was a deep sadness in Sherlock's eyes that surprised John, "I should not have left you behind."

John felt his eyes sting slightly but fought it back, "That's right. That's right. And I…" he closed his eyes and shook his head, "…shouldn't have let you think that it was alright to leave me behind. Not ever."

The kettle whistled, and Sherlock placed a hand gently about John's forearm before he released it, stood up and went to make the tea. He made it quickly, cleanly, without any bustle or fuss, his movements as precise as though he were conducting a laboratory experiment. John watched him, his head tilted.

Sherlock brought the tea back with four biscuits on a small plate, which he placed with the two cups on the small coffee table in front of John's chair. He folded his lanky limbs easily and sank down on the floor in front of John's chair arm, and reached for his tea, as did John.

They sat sipping quietly.

Eventually Sherlock turned his head around and up to look at John, and said, "So, we got it wrong."

"Yes."

"All of it?"

There was a short silence while John considered that, "Most of it."

"Well, that's interesting."

The silence fell again as they sipped their tea.

Sherlock finished his tea and commented softly, "There's always something."

John chuckled, and Sherlock smiled.

John waited, and Sherlock murmured, "You're going to make me figure this out all by myself, aren't you?"

"Probably. I already had a go at putting myself out there, Sherlock. I don't feel like trying that again."

"Well, John, we had only known each other for less than 24 hours, I thought it wise to be cautious. I mean, you might have turned out to be a dangerous man."

John leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on top of Sherlock's head, "Depends on what you mean by dangerous."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked at John, his expression segueing rapidly from mock horror to a wry smile, "I see."

The silence fell again as John finished his tea and three of the biscuits.

"I won't eat it, it's for you," Sherlock pointed out, and watched as John ate the last biscuit.

They sat in silence, John's leg gradually sagging until it rested against Sherlock's shoulder, then his eyes drooping slowly shut.

Sherlock disturbed him by standing up and taking the tea cups and plate back to the kitchen. John sat quietly, his eyes slowly closing again, until a voice above him said, "Come on."

"What?" John took the proffered hand nonetheless, and was pulled surprisingly easily to his feet.

"Come and sleep in my room," said Sherlock softly, putting his arm around John's shoulders. He grinned at the panicked look in John's eyes, and said, "No, no, no… I'm not…. never mind. But it's pretty obvious you're not going to sleep easy unless you have incontrovertible evidence of my continued presence."

"People will talk," muttered John with a weak smile.

"Indeed they will, John," smiled Sherlock, ruffling the sandy grey hair, "And this time we may get it right and ignore them."


	2. Chapter 2

John's face felt odd. He opened his eyes and saw blackness. He breathed in the smell of hair and expensive shampoo and for a breathless moment wondered how drunk he had gotten the night before and who the hell he had shagged.

But then he slowly realised that he didn't have a hangover. In fact he felt well rested, almost as though he had slept the night through. That couldn't have happened. That hadn't happened for years. He felt relaxed and contented, pressed up against the warm body beside him. The sun was streaming in through the curtains and it was a beautiful morning. John sighed.

He lifted a hand cautiously and rubbed the black curly hair between his fingers, then nearly flew out of the bed when a soft baritone said, "Ouch."

John sat up, his hand over his mouth, then the _man_ in his bed rolled over sleepily, eyes translucent green in the morning light, and muttered irritably, "What are you doing?"

John felt relief wash over him and sighed, "Sherlock."

"Last time I checked, yes."

John sighed in relief, "Oh, I thought this was real."

A pause, then a sarcastic, "Oh, thank you."

"You know what I mean."

"Usually yes, but you seem to be making a little less sense than usual this morning, John."

John chuckled and relaxed, then cautiously lay back down and wriggled up against the apparition. He buried his nose in the black hair and sighed, "Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, "You're a different man when you're dreaming, John Watson."

John squinted at the odd comment, but said nothing.

Sherlock rolled over a little more so that he could observe John's face from close up.

John wondered if one should feel.. uncomfortable, in one's dreams. Usually he just felt vaguely curious, or just plain terrified. Discomfort and pain did not seem to feature in his dream world, only curiosity and fear. He mentally shrugged and relaxed, pulling Sherlock a little closer so that their noses almost touched.

"John," the apparition warned him. John ignored it and tugged a little more, then squawked "Ow!" as pain lanced through his forearm. He pulled back, and said, "You pinched me!"

"Yes, and now you're fully awake," Sherlock pointed out, "So shouldn't I be… gone?"

John's eyes widened and he struggled back away from Sherlock, who smiled as John nearly fell out of the bed.

"Jesus!"

"Are you going to do this every morning?" asked Sherlock with a grin, "Assume that I'm dead?"

The doctor's face was shocked, then he swallowed, "Sorry," and bolted for the door, but Sherlock had seen the sudden pain in the dark blue eyes, and bit his lip. By the time he was out of bed, John had slammed the shower door and Sherlock heard water running.

"Dear, oh dear," sighed Sherlock. He had been going to call Lestrade and ask for a case to work on, but it seemed that his blogger needed some maintenance first. Sherlock wondered who to call on for advice. His face lit up and he yelled at the closed bathroom door, "Going out for a bit!" then headed down the stairs and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door.

"Sherlock, dear, come on in. Where's John?"

Sherlock smiled, "Having a shower. He woke up in bed with me and it gave him quite a fright."

Mrs Hudson opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, "Pancakes, dear?"

"Mmm, starving," said Sherlock.

"Good! First time I think I've ever heard you say that!" she exclaimed, bustling about getting the pan out of the cupboard. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but did not reply.

"John's a bit…" he started, then trailed off.

"Yes, dear, I know, he needs fixing. He'll be alright now that you're back," she assured him.

His eyes locked onto the back of her head, "What do I need to do?"

Mrs Hudson took a deep breath and said, "You're doing it."

"What?"

"_Not being dead_, dear. It's a magnificent start, as far as John's concerned. We're all quite happy about it, actually. Except maybe Mycroft."

Sherlock smiled, looking a little distracted as he listened for John's footsteps on the stairs.

Mrs Hudson filled the kettle. A new one, Sherlock noted. The other one had blown the fuses.

She continued to talk, "The rest will come with patience, Sherlock."

He grimaced, and she shook her head at him as she organised a teapot, sugar and milk then went hunting for flour and milk.

Sherlock scowled, "But there must be something I can _do_, Mrs Hudson. He's waking up every morning thinking I'm dead. It's rather awkward."

"Well, I imagine it was rather awkward for him over the last three years," she admonished, "You know, he really was rather fond of you. It was a bit nasty, leaving him here all… well, sad, like that."

"_Was_ rather fond of me? Has he changed his mind?" Sherlock was horrified.

"Oh, well," she decided happily as she cracked two eggs into a bowl, "If he woke up in your bed this morning, I wouldn't say so, would you, dearie?"

"So he's happy I'm back. Why does he still wake up thinking I'm dead?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips as she mixed the flour and sugar into the mix, "Well, dear, it's probably just habit, you know. He has woken up every morning for three years thinking that, so he's probably just in the way of doing it now. You might have to give him a little bit of time to get over that."

Sherlock sighed irritably.

"You'll just have to learn patience, my dear," she said, deciding belatedly that an apron might be in order, "He's really worth it."

Sherlock met her eyes, considering, then said, "Yes," and subsided back into silence.

"Or you could just seduce him, dear," suggested Mrs Hudson quietly, "Nothing like a bit of physical... you know, to convince him you're real."

"Not. My. Area."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she warmed the butter in the pan, "You mean you don't know how."

Sherlock drew his knees up and stared pointedly at the wall. There was a faint hiss as the first pancakes were spooned into the pan, and she put his cup of tea in front of him and advised softly, "Just stay close and be nice to him, Sherlock. It shouldn't take too long if you do that."

Sherlock ground his teeth and sniffed his tea.

Silence fell for a minute or so, then footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sherlock looked around just in time to see John appear at the door, "Something smells good."

"Hello, dear! Just doing my usual Saturday morning pancakes. I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't turned up yet."

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock, horrified.

"He's been popping in every week, you know, to check I'm okay," smiled Mrs Hudson, "Him and that lovely Greg."

Sherlock sat up, frowning, "Lestrade?"

"Greeeat," muttered John, "Do you mind if I pour myself a cuppa?"

"Already done, dear, yours is over there near Sherlock."

"Oh, thanks. I thought that was yours," said John, and came to sit down at the table next to Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked, then looked keenly at Mrs Hudson, who turned and winked at him.

"Weather's lovely today," commented John.

"You two should go for a walk," suggested Mrs Hudson, flipping a pile of pancakes onto a large plate and bringing it to the table, "After you've eaten, of course."

Sherlock looked thoughtful, "I haven't done that for…" he stopped, and John looked at him. Sherlock hesitated, then simply said, "Alright, but we should all go."

Mrs Hudson looked delighted, "Oh, that would be lovely dear. But I'm afraid I'd have a bit of trouble keeping up, with your long legs."

"Well, we'll walk as far as you can manage, then put you in a cab home," decided Sherlock.

John frowned and tilted his head, then caught himself and smiled at Mrs Hudson, "Sounds great."

They continued chatting for about fifteen minutes, then Sherlock noticed John was sitting back smiling at him as he spoke to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock asked quietly, "What?"

"Nothing. You've changed."

Sherlock hesitated, then said very quietly, "Whose fault's that?"

John frowned, but then Mrs Hudson asked, "Can we go to that new garden shop near the Tower? If I'm catching a taxi back, I can pick up two of those big blue flowerpots I've been wanting. Save me having to lug them back on the Tube."

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," smiled Sherlock warmly, and John stared at him. He wondered what Mrs Hudson had done to earn Sherlock's obvious respect and admiration. John had never asked either of them the full story behind her husband's conviction and Sherlock's involvement, and he wondered whether that was the source of Sherlock's obvious affection for her. It seemed unlikely, that a murder case against her husband could have caused Sherlock to admire her so thoroughly. John resolved to ask her at the first possible opportunity.

They finished the pancakes and John helped Mrs Hudson wash the dishes while Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to grab their coats and gloves. Just as they left 221B, a black car pulled up outside the door.

Sherlock's face went still.

The window wound down, and Mycroft leaned out, "Too late for your pancakes, Mrs Hudson?"

"You're a little tardy today, young man!" admonished Mrs Hudson, "We're all going off for a walk to the Tower. Why don't you come with us? It's a lovely day."

"There's a patisserie just near the Tower. Greg and I will have breakfast and wait for you there," smiled Mycroft, then said something to his driver and the black car moved off smoothly.

Sherlock mouthed, _Greg?_ He turned to John and asked, "Greg? Does he mean Lestrade? He calls him Greg?"

"Er. Yes," smiled John, looking a little embarrassed.

Mrs Hudson smiled to herself and said, "Come on, stop mucking about you two, it's a long walk."

She set out at a surprising pace, and Sherlock muttered, "You've all gone mad. Obviously I should have stayed here to keep an eye on you."

Sherlock didn't think John had heard him, so he was surprised when the doctor said breezily, "Obviously," and reached for his hand as they walked along.

Sherlock hesitated, and John said, "Look, it was you who said we shouldn't worry about what people think."

"So I did," remembered Sherlock, and allowed John to take his hand. The doctor's hand was small but warm and strong. Sherlock sighed, "You have all gone mad."

"Almost," agreed John, "but I think we're all getting better now."

They had to stride quickly to keep up with Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock suddenly looked disgusted with himself, "How did I miss that. Hip replacement?"

"Yes, last February," smiled John.

Sherlock berated himself silently as they strode along. But after a while, he realised that John had not let go his hand, not even when they came into the more crowded central city where there were more people walking about. It was fun watching the reactions their little group of three drew from the people they passed. He began deducing the passers-by, and John said quietly, "Getting back in practice?"

Sherlock replied, "Well, it makes a change from lining up people's vitals for a quick kill."

John winced, but squeezed Sherlock's hand, "It does, doesn't it?"

Sherlock realised suddenly that he and John now had something else in common; they had both gone off overseas with the express intention of killing people. How nice.

"You shouldn't be grinning about that, Sherlock," said John, his eyes intent on Sherlock's face.

"Oh."

"Oh, boy, this is going to be fun," sighed John.


End file.
